


A Fool's Hope

by disenchantedwing



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Eventual Sex, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28804314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disenchantedwing/pseuds/disenchantedwing
Summary: As used as Legolas is to bearing a heavy heart in secret, it is made exceptionally difficult when Aragorn reconsiders his feelings.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 23
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have long since fallen in love with these two. Any canonical mistake is very possible, but I hope that you enjoy reading still. new side account, and I have to say some aralas angst/smut is an excellent way to go forward ;)

\---

Their camp just outside the forest was empty for once, Aragorn able to sit on the cool floor and let his thoughts wander freely, grey eyes moving across the forest, slow, as if too quick a movement would scatter his thoughts. For they were delicate, not so easily pulled to the front of his mind. It had been pressing at the back of his head, looming, and he hadn’t a moment’s peace to unleash it upon himself until they stopped for the night. 

The scene replayed for him again and again, the pound of his heart, the heavy thuds on the ground before him. He had not gone into the fight with the Uruks who laid siege upon them with fear, and yet, he left it with more fear than all his battles before him. The skirmish had been almost too simple, rather easy for his party, except for one moment. All save for that one moment, when Aragorn flew back from the captain’s charge, his sword escaping him, and time had slowed. The screams of the Uruk-Hai were distant as if they were miles away and not mere paces away, the familiar sound of Gimili’s axe thudding and Legolas’ ever precise arrows cutting through the air, and still, on the ground without weapon Aragorn lay. The air was dense, hot with sweat and blood, and he had been there countless times before. He had twisted, fingers a breath from finding his sword, when a fallen Uruk-Hai pierced by an arrow slumped onto his outstretched arm, crushing it, and the first tendrils of panic spread throughout his body. Turning, Aragorn watched the approaching enemy, his arm frantically pulling at his sword, and he tried to ready his body to react should his enemy thrust forward. For all his strength, it was too painful an angle, and he grit his teeth, readying his body for the spear. The Uruk-Hai hissed excitedly, knowing how pinned Aragorn was, and as his enemy pulled the spear back to throw, Aragorn heard Legolas’ desperate cry. 

It was almost odd, or eerie, really, to hear such a tortured cry fall from Legolas’ lips, so much so that Aragorn briefly turned in surprise, watching Legolas push through the Uruk-Hai faster than Arargon had yet to ever see him move. He was moving as if flames licked at his back, as if every step he was away from Aragorn caused him pain worse than death. Ducking through the crowd, quick hands lodging daggers into skulls like a simple afterthought. Gone was the graceful movements Aragorn so closely associated with the elf, for he looked wrought with savage movements, his limbs hard and lashing. His face, normally calm and smooth, was pulled back in such raw anguish, blue eyes blazing and golden hair thrown in the air like some bright halo, looking more desperate than Aragorn had ever thought to be possible. Aragorn shifted back to watch his enemy, time falling slower and slower, when suddenly three arrows pierced its skull, hot blood splattering on Aragorn’s face. An instant later, Legolas was at Aragorn’s side, fighting off the thinning circle of enemies and allowing Aragorn to reclaim his sword and stand once more. But it was of little matter; Legolas had killed almost all of them before Aragorn had even brandished his sword again. He had never seen Legolas fight with so much fury, so much rash urgency. It was not long after until the last Uruk-Hai fell, and they regrouped with Gimli a few paces away. The trio had resumed their run through the fields without talking, leaving the black mass of bodies behind, with Aragorn’s mind replaying Legolas’ face again and again. 

A familiar step sounded behind him, and Aragorn recognized it was a courtesy more than anything; Legolas was silent on his feet unless he chose not to be. Aragorn tilted his head, catching the elf pass him in his peripheral, making his way to sit opposite of the ranger. 

“Anything?” Aragorn asked quietly, bringing his eyes up to meet the elf’s blue ones. 

“I do not believe so. I’d hope we did not need to linger, but I fear our companion is more affected by today than he would care to tell. Our timing matters little if we arrive half dead.” Legolas said softly, his eyes looking at Aragorn’s drumming fingers. 

Aragorn focused his gaze, recognizing the smallest telling tilt of the elf’s voice. “I do not normally hear such falsehoods from your mouth. Gimli is not injured. Nor I.” 

If Aragorn hadn’t known Legolas so well, he would’ve missed the barest flush of his cheeks. “I do not offer falsehoods,” he finally said. 

“Perhaps not pointedly. You think I need to rest, and so you weave such words to beckon me to let my guard down.” Aragorn stated, and Legolas considered him, his gaze ever piercing. 

“Yes, I do.”

“I do not need to. I am fine.” Aragorn insisted, the prickliness of defensiveness curling in his gut. Too frequently was he reminded of his mortality, always falling short into weakness, always when he could afford none. 

At that, Legolas sprang up, and slivers of the moon filtering from the trees shining on his pale face. “You haven’t slept in days. It only takes shy of one moment of misjudgement. You were almost lost to... _us_ today.” Legolas snapped, his normally quiet voice loud and cutting. As soon as the words left his mouth, he stepped back, face pulled back in apology. “Forgive me, I have -” 

Aragorn straightened, his thoughts of earlier calling loudly in the forefront of his mind, begging him to push, to understand, to clarify what he surely must not have seen. “You saved my life. It is to you whom I owe an apology.” Aragorn asserted. “Thank you, Legolas.” 

Legolas nodded, but the air felt thick, like the conversation was cut too short too quickly. It felt like he owed him more than a thank you, but he couldn’t articulate exactly why easily. The more seconds passed, the more his “thank you” felt too great of an understatement; they had saved each others’ lives countless times before, but this time was the first time Aragorn had felt as if the memory begged him to look _deeper,_ to find more meaning, before it flitted away. 

Frowning, Argarn struggled to think about what else to say, because he knew he wanted to keep Legolas’ attention still. How could he say what he thought it may be, when the effect of voicing it could lead them towards unknown parameters? The notion of it did not bother Aragorn in the slightest, it left him...it changed him, pulled and prodded at him, but he knew not yet for what. It was peculiar, for he was used to attracting affections, had seen that look many a time, but he hadn’t ever thought to look so close in his circle. “I wanted to -” Aragorn started, not noticing the way blue eyes watched every word formed by chapped lips. 

“You’d think there’d be a little more to collect here in a damn forest. Aye, I’ve not found anything!” Gimli’s rough voice startled Aragorn from his thoughts, and he pulled away quickly. Looking back, Legolas looked just as calm as ever, his mask slid back on, and Aragorn felt oddly breathless. 

“Nothing is found so easily in these lands. It matters not. We must continue.” Aragorn finally said, turning to grab his sword, wondering why his eyes burned to follow Legolas’ figure so closely. 

\---

It had taken ahold of Aragorn, seemingly far out of proportions, to dwell on something that happened in barely three seconds. Now he actively looked for any wandering eyes, of blue eyes that stayed on his face too long, or watching him while he knew not. But he did not see them. Rather, it was cool grey eyes that found themselves pulled to the elf most moments, curious if they would look back, and then dwelling, desiring to spend their focus completely. Whether it be lingering on the way Legolas sprung from rock to rock, lithe muscles tightening under his garb, the way his fair hair never seemed to truly fall out of place, as if it was just on a brief sail through the air to return to the golden halo, or the way he seemed to bask in the sun when no one was looking, his perfect face tilted above, Aragorn’s eyes felt bound to him. 

It was as if Legolas knew every time he saw, because not once did blue eyes look back. Or perhaps he did not care, nor did he mean to save Aragorn with anything more than a friend’s loyalty. The longer Aragorn thought of it, the more he decided he must have been mistaken, and the more he felt foolish. Legolas never looked at him too long, never longer than Gimli would have, and Aragorn watched constantly, his eyes sharp for any sign. He knew not what he would’ve even done had he found it; it did not pain him, but felt...so underneath his gasp he need only close his hands around it and decide what it meant. But it did not show, and Aragorn knew he was unfounded. Beyond misguided to have riddled the elf with such unwanted stares, after he saved his very life, but Aragorn still could not pull his gaze for fear of missing it. 

What he did not know was that pale blue eyes watched him at night, drinking in his presence unadulterated, knowing that when the daytime came, and grey eyes opened, he must assume Legolas Greenleaf, Aragorn’s friend, and nothing more. He had accepted his fate, had known it for years. But it grew more difficult, especially under the heady gaze of his hawkish grey eyes, knowing he could not risk looking back and revealing his heart. 

\---

It was so foreign a feeling, feeling safe, his immediate mission secured, that Aragorn hadn’t known what to do when Gandalf had encouraged him to take what he could from the day before they rode for Edoras. In Fangorn forest, Aragorn set out to find some chance of deep water, washing himself an appealing thought during such a rare respite. 

He had found a small pool, not too deep, and the brush around was so dense Aragorn thought easy to rid himself of all his clothes in privacy. It was a beautiful feeling, the exit of sweat and blood and dirt from his skin, leaving his weary skin cool and less rough. Dunking his head, he had pressed dirty and grime off, swimming slowly until his fill was taken. Pushing himself up onto the bank, Aragorn stood up, back muscles rippling with the movement, and quiet feet stepped on the moss. 

The smallest movement of a bush behind him made the ranger turn defensively, fingers on their way to grabbing his sword near his feet. 

Blonde hair signalled Legolas before the rest of his form, and Aragorn relaxed, dropping his sword. Blue eyes quickly found him, widening at his state of undress, and Legolas looked at a moment, lost for words. 

“You have found me, although I am sure not in the state you were hoping.” Aragorn smiled, amused, thinking Legolas’ surprise would be short-lived. His clothes lay damp on the branches, and Aragorn resigned himself to waiting a little longer to put them back on. “Do you bring news?” Aragorn asked over his shoulder. Silence answered him, and he turned in confusion. 

“Legolas?”

Aragorn stared openly at Legolas, who had a slight flush on his high cheekbones, his eyes averted. Aragorn frowned. “Is there something amiss?” 

“No.” Legolas said softly, and blue eyes briefly met grey ones. 

“This might be our only chance to bathe in freshwater. You’d do well to take advantage.” Aragorn said casually, the words come unbidden to his tongue, and he briefly wondered where they came from. Legolas blinked, watching Aragorn closely, before nodding. 

Aragorn set to sit on the moss, pulling out his pipe. Legolas’ slow undressing in his peripheral was oddly pulling, more obviously enticing than his normal eye wanderings, and Aragorn struggled to find something of greater interest elsewhere. He had seen Legolas in very minimal states of undress before - it seemed as if the elf never really changed in front of company. The more Aragorn thought of it, he felt stunned that the elf hadn’t dismissed his offer, and was undressing right in front of him. As soon as Aragorn noticed Legolas twist to put his garb on the bank, he chanced a look, curiosity getting the best of him. 

Legolas had always been beautiful, that was simple to see, being an elf, but he was further considered one of the most fair of even his kind, and Aragorn had always known this, but it resided in his mind more like a fact than anything else. He was eternally beautiful, the sight so obvious in front of him making Aragorn’s thoughts turn to the first few times he had seen the prince’s beauty. Aragorn remembered when he had first met him, just a child, turning eyes in awe after the Prince of Mirkwood. He often forgot how powerful the elf truly was, of such high rank, and yet, he was so soft-spoken, so loyal to Aragorn, that he acted as if it was normal to defer the man. Undeserved was the word, rattling in Aragorn’s head, because long lean legs shifted with the smallest movement, white skin pulling over strong muscles, bright blonde hair falling perfectly over shoulders... _Beautiful._ As soon as he let his eyes take full hold, they drank in the sight, and Aragorn traced lean shoulders down to a narrow waist, and the only word Aragorn could think of was ethereal. Because he _knew_ how powerful the being in front of him was, could tell by every movement that he needed only a moment to attack with deadly precision, and yet he looked so perfect, not worn by any battles or wars or age. Aragorn inhaled incorrectly, the smoke pushing insistently at his lungs, but he waited until Legolas waded into the water completely to cough loudly, hoping the elf wouldn’t notice his gaze. 

The water broke, and Legolas’ fair head poked out, eyes unblinking, his cryptic gaze pinning on Aragorn. The silence felt strangely comforting, or perhaps Aragorn just didn’t want to break such a moment with foolish words, and so he just met the elf’s gaze, wondering how disarming the elf could possibly be when only the tip of head was out of the water. Legolas rose further, pale shoulders breaking the water, and Aragorn watched as water droplets slid down the perfect expanse of skin, and he felt hungry suddenly, like he wanted to touch, if only to see how soft it was. 

Aragorn made to get up, not to touch, he was careful to hide that impulse, but to come closer, because he could feel his heart being tugged forward forcefully, and he almost forgot he was without clothes. 

“I know who you think you saw.” Legolas said softly, blonde hair floating on the water surface. “It is not fair to your heart to play such images.” 

Aragorn faltered, the words stilling him. “Who I saw?” Aragorn echoed, the silence broken, and the wash of embarrassment of misguided interest made his stomach turn in shame. 

Legolas turned, blue eyes following the treetops, water droplets running down his sharp jaw down to the water. “I imagine you see her everywhere. In everything you see or do. Heavy is the heart that loves true.” 

_Oh._ Aragorn frowned, mouth open, and then his heart sank, because the words cut into him. He hadn’t spared a single thought of Arwen, that felt very distant, as if it was being blocked temporarily. The air felt tense, and Aragorn knew he should say so, but it felt wrong, to lie to his friend, and the appeal of honesty was overwhelmingly disarming, as if he could impress upon him his unfaltering loyalty with such an admission. “There is not a veil over my eyes, that would undo what is in front of me.” Aragorn said finally, and as if he had been struck, he turned to gather his clothes, hoping that his arousal was hidden in the shadow of the treetops. 

Legolas watched after him, frozen in the water. Aragorn pulled on his boots, shoving his pipe under his belt, and he risked a last look. The elf looked back at him, concern pulling at his features. That made Aragorn feel worse, his guilt making his skin crawl, for even when Aragorn felt shame, did Legolas think the best of him. 

“It seems not everywhere.” Aragorn whispered, barely audible, and he walked into the brush quickly before he had to dwell on the weight of the revelation. 

\---

Aragorn rounded the corner, exhaustion pulling his limbs down, but he kept his gait normal, as to not draw any more attention. His chest burned, his hands raw, but his mind was alight with purpose. The hall was warm, many soldiers ahead, and he knew he was close to the great hall. Suddenly, Legolas stepped in front of him, materializing from the shadows. Aragorn hesitated, not realizing how much he missed seeing the elf until he was right in front of him, and grey eyes searched the perfect face in front of him for any change. There was none. He felt breathless, like all the air had flown from his lungs when he needed it most, and the silence was long. 

_“You’re late.”_ Elvish fell from Legolas’ lips, and Aragorn focused, the welcome tongue washing over him. 

Legolas looked entirely too collected, his golden strands lying at his shoulders, braids pulled back, his sharp face showing no sign of wear or tiredness. Each second in passing Aragorn felt exceedingly more aware of the effect the elf seemed to have on him, and he was too grateful to see him unharmed to dwell on it. 

Blue eyes dropped down to take in Aragorn’s state, ripped garb giving way to bleeding wounds. “You look terrible.” Legolas finally said. 

They stared at each other, Legolas meeting Aragorn’s fervent gaze, until the ranger grinned, earning a smile from the prince. Aragorn clasped Legolas’ shoulder, squeezing him, hoping that he would feel the gratefulness Aragorn hadn’t the heart or wit to tell him of yet. 

Legolas moved his hand slowly in between them, Aragorn’s gaze following, and he caught sight of the Evenstar, his heart clenching. The elf’s slim hand opened wide, and he placed it into Aragorn’s palm. Aragorn stared down at it, his heart tightening, his chest feeling torn. He had just felt Arwen’s kiss on his lips on the river bank, her love flooding his body and breathing life back into him. He did love her, he knew that. But it felt wrong coming from Legolas, as if it was misplaced for him to have to carry, and Aragorn exhaled sharply, thankful at least that he had been given the gift back. Aragorn looked back up to Legolas, hoping for some break in his mask to show Aragorn what the interaction meant to him, and he almost felt disappointed to find the prince smiling kindly back at him. 

_“Thank you.”_ Aragorn said quietly, for the Evenstar, and with the pressing knowledge that Legolas had always been there for him when he had fallen, ever faithful at his side, and with not anything to ask when he deserved everything Aragorn had to give. 

The news he carried hummed in the back of his mind, and Aragorn scolded himself for hoping Legolas would say something else, anything to keep the conversation continued, but the elf just looked at him softly. Aragorn brushed by him with an appreciative nod, seeking Theoden, and the noise of the hall continued on after the ranger left. 

As soon as he heard Aragorn’s steps in the next hall, Legolas blinked quickly, desperate to stave off his mounting emotions that had threatened to spill out the second he saw Aragorn alive again. Slender fingers gripped his belt tightly; Legolas tried to ground himself. Now that those grey eyes weren’t looking at him, the need to guard his desires had fallen, and the elf turned to find refuge in the crisp air outside. Weary was the heart that hung so heavy alone, but harder was to carry it under the veil of simple friendship. How _unfair_ it was, to stand in front of the man whose very name was on his lips every night, to not fall at his feet in relief or embrace him as he so wanted to. How _unfair_ it was to return Arwen’s love back to him, when the man had never realized Legolas had given him his heart every day, every second on the battlefield, every moment for countless years had loving blue eyes watched his form. Legolas grit his teeth angrily, his strides quickening, needing to be around the trees, not so vulnerable in the open fields of Rohan, to find his nerve again. It was too difficult to be tormented by such a torrent of emotions from that man, because every time he left the elf behind. 

\---

Women and children ran past Aragorn, too many that every face melted into the other, every baby’s cry the same, and Aragorn watched, the poison of fear and panic festering in the air. He stood in the armory of Helm’s Deep, watching too many old men and too many young boys gearing up, their terror plain on their faces. 

“Farmers, farriers, stable boys. These are no soldiers.” Aragorn muttered, grey eyes narrowing. 

“Most have seen too many winters.” Gimli said gruffly, leaning against his axe. Not one to show nervousness, Gimli placed a hand over restless fingers drumming, hiding them from view. 

“Or too few.” Legolas stepped in front of Aragorn, his face tight with barely concealed anger. Aragorn stared at him, knowing he too, understood the odds before them, the impossibilities asked of them under the banner of good and righteousness. But Legolas’ blue eyes looked hurt behind the anger, his mouth pulled back in a sneer. He looked around, hands outstretched dismissively. “Look at them. They’re frightened. I can see it in their eyes.”

The men fell silent, all eyes locked on the elf prince. Aragorn tensed his jaw; the observation was clear, but he would not say it, would not strip what courage they still had by revelation of the fear that tore through them. 

_“And they should be...three hundred against ten thousand!”_ Legolas hissed, the normally pretty elvish sounding too sharp, too cutting, coming from Legolas’ gentle mouth. 

Aragorn stepped closer, tilting his head, begging the elf to recognize the needlessness of such a truth, to let such words fall on his ears rather than these makeshift soldiers rank with fear. _“They have more hope of defending themselves here than at Edoras.”_ Aragorn pointed out, his frustration pushing up into his throat. What would the prince have him do? Tell all in front of them that were to die? That they were no soldiers, that they faced such a cruel evil that knew no mercy, that revelled in the chance to torture the weakest of men? No, surely not. Legolas seemed incited by something else still, something else that had burned him, that had sent him with blazing blue eyes to cut into Aragorn. 

_“Aragorn, we are warriors. They cannot win this fight. They are all going to die!”_ Legolas snapped, blonde hair whipping around, his beautiful face sharp and unforgiving. 

Aragorn felt his patience snap, a wicked helplessness buoyed by stubbornness, because there was nothing else to do, he was paralyzed, waiting for what surely looked like death to come _._ Rage, that they could ask so much of Rohan’s men, who looked as if they had never seen war before, and reduce them to their greatest fears, rather than search for the courage of men. Seeing Legolas so furious and not knowing entirely _why_ the elf had been so incensed to reveal such premonitions, made Aragorn feel cornered, as if he had lost the undying loyalty of his dearest friend, and the worst part was that he was _right._

“Then I shall die as one of them!” Aragorn thundered, and the ripple of renewed silence that spread throughout the men made Aragorn clench his fists. He turned, knowing that he would lose his temper further if he dwelled, and the sharp piercing of Legolas’ despair made all the muscles on Aragorn’s body strain, as if they were leaping off his very bones. 

Legolas stared after him, his throat closed, and he immediately sought to follow Aragorn, to right his wrong. Because then the hurt that had built up so unfairly, the feeling of anguish that had splintered his heart to return the Evenstar back, the bitter knowledge that he carried Arwen’s heart only to dutifully return it back to Aragorn’s chest had burned too great this time, making his breath come short, his usually resigned mind alight with envy. Great sorrow spread through his veins, regret making them plead for action, and Legolas stepped forward quickly, intent on begging for forgiveness. 

Gimli’s axe prevented him from proceeding, the dwarf’s heavy hand pulling the elf back. “Let him go, lad. Let him be.” 

Legolas watched the open doorway, mind replaying the exit of the holder of his heart, knowing Aragorn well enough to know that his temper was fiery but brief, and forgiveness should be found after. He owed it to the ranger to offer it immediately, but selfishly, the prince desired so dearly Aragorn’s kind eyes once more, if only to continue the endless dance with Legolas’ very heart, and so he would catch Aragorn later to better such chances. 

\---

Aragorn shifted, the beat of the thousands of Uruks thrumming in his head. They were trapped there until all hell broke loos come nightfall. He stood still, tightening his garb, knuckles white with anxiety, grey eyes unseeing. The certainty of dying seemed impossibly high, as Legolas had pointed out earlier, but his mind was silent, numb. 

“I was looking for you.” Legolas’ soft voice sounded from behind him, and Aragorn felt his chest loosen. He turned, catching Legolas’ heavy gaze, his mouth twitching up. 

“You needn’t worry, I do not stray far.” 

Legolas watched him, blue eyes soft and repentant. He extended Aragorn’s sword, his slender white fingers a stark difference to the dried orc blood that covered the blade. “We have trusted you this far. You have not led us astray. Forgive me.” Legolas bent his head, offering the blade. “I was wrong to despair.” The elf said quietly, but fervently, and Aragorn knew that the elf had considered his words much before coming to find him. 

_“There is nothing to forgive, Legolas.”_ Aragorn affirmed, his hand falling on Legolas’ shoulder, his eyes warm. Legolas smiled gently, his hand coming up to hold tightly at Aragorn’s shoulder, and Aragorn quieted the voice in his head that urged to hold him closer. Aragorn dropped his hand, attaching his sword to his belt. Like a wave, repose seeped through Aragorn’s body, realigned with his dearest friend. His breath slowed, and he closed his eyes, thoughts dragged back to the threat that loomed ahead. He felt less numb to have Legolas’ words playing in his mind, easing his tense frame, but the knowledge that it would be short-lived was less than appealing. 

“Your eyes do not see in front of you. To where have you gone in your mind?” Legolas asked, and Aragorn missed the way the elf’s fingers stretched to touch the man again, only to fall when Aragorn looked back at him. 

Aragorn considered him, wishing he could read Legolas more like he used to, wishing the elf’s careful eyes would show more, but since before they had reached Fangorn Forest, he had been very difficult to read. The prince did not indulge in his own thoughts or opinions often, but there were years and years they had known each other, and yet Aragorn felt like something had made Legolas choose what he revealed with greater care now. 

“No. I am here. It has held me tightly by the heart, I dare not leave.” Aragorn paused, eyes landing on the prince in front of him, who looked as if he was wholly there in the moment with Aragorn, as if he had no thought about the impossible battle ahead. “What goes on in your mind? Before such a horror?” 

“Do you mean to ask what I draw strength from?” Legolas asked slowly, unsure. Aragorn had never asked them such a thing before. 

“What brings strength to the great Legolas Greenleaf, my trusted friend through everything. What grants you the calm nerve that never wavers when the calls of war sound?” 

Legolas shifted minutely, his eyes falling briefly. “Why? I can offer no advice for the love that aches your soul. I fare no better than you.” 

At that, Aragorn tilted his head, unsure of the implications. Was that to speak in such generalities of love, of which Legolas had seen endless times in all the years he had already, the way it works and roots in one’s soul, or to speak of some love that Legolas bear? Aragorn had never even considered Legolas might know such a love, for his focus and loyalty to Aragorn has remained too true to allow any room for hopes of another in some distant land. But it felt...like more. He loathed the thought that Legolas did not feel comfortable to share any thoughts himself, when Aragorn knew that such thoughts were wise and well sought out. 

“I have always wanted your counsel. Your thoughts, your desires, should you wish something, you are most deserving of it. I have long cared for the words on your lips. Long have I held you in the highest regard.” Aragron said honestly, and it felt so true to say, so _freeing,_ his chest burning with intensity. Long had he held him so dearly indeed, though not long in the span of the elf’s life. Aragorn’s mind took off again to days at Rivendell, when the sun was high, and the Prince of Mirkwood would visit with his father, always kind to Aragorn’s awed gaze, always willing to converse elvish with the boy, when all other elves of Mirkwood paid him no mind. “Since I was but a boy.” 

Legolas smiled warmly. “Estel. I keep such memories close.” 

Aragorn had not worn that name for many years, but the soft way Legolas spoke it made him wish of simpler days, before the damning line of kings dawned upon him, before such a dark path laid out in front of him. Usually, Legolas wouldn’t continue, being short with words, but something pulled the prince’s head up, staring at Aragorn more openly. “I knew not exactly your path, nor did I realize I laid eyes upon the Lost King of Gondor. But since you were young, I have no cause to not think you are the finest man I have met. Fit of kings.” 

Aragorn shook his head, his heart hammering with the praise spoken so impassioned from the archer. “You speak too highly of me. I am undeserving. Long have I been told that I should care about such a large realm of Men, how great must I be to earn their fealty. But tonight, my friend, that is not what I think of. Tonight I bask in the gratitude to have walked beside you.” Aragorn grabbed Legolas’ shoulder, his fingers firm, and he resisted the immediate desire to touch the golden strands underneath. His tanned dirty hands looked so wrong next to the elf’s pristine brightness, but it was so soft under his touch, that Aragorn’s chest tightened with yearning to fist his hand in the golden strands, to mine the softness from the beautiful elf in front of him. 

“I did not choose my earlier rash words correctly, friend. I do not care about the odds. It would be an honor to die beside you.” Legolas promised, and Aragorn’s heart skipped, his palms sweating, wanting to see the elf closer, wanting to hear the words again from his lips, wanting to feel him on his skin _._ He felt addicted to this bright light that came to save his brooding, and a defiant fire tore through his chest. _We will not die._

“There is still hope. There is _always_ hope.” Aragorn said firmly, desperate to dissuade any other notion from coming into existence. _You will not die._

Aragorn stood, extending a hand to pull Legolas up, and he was always surprised at how truly light the elf was. They stood not a breath apart, very close in height, and Aragorn felt a stirring in his chest, his heart beating powerfully, the overwhelming tide of emotion drowning him before the elf. The looming threat walking upon them, the great battle that lay ahead of him...Aragorn knew that caused his emotions to fall harder, to run with any semblance of thought and come back with untold secrets of himself. He had not felt such disarming force since...since he had met Arwen, and even then, though that love thrummed true, though he had always found ease in loving her, this was so very different. This felt wild, unabridged, as if his heart begged him to cast off the stables of his ribs, open his chest and present himself to the prince. The realization was devastating, ever on the brink of coherent thought but now it had flung past into consciousness with a vengeance. His lungs seized, breath stuttering out, and every second that passed his thoughts hunted farther, desperate to know it wasn’t true, it was a passing affection, but each second passed and farther did he delve, deeper than he thought possible, and he knew it to be true. He looked down at Legolas’ perfect face, smooth white plains of skin over high cheekbones and sharp features, blazing blue eyes that promised everything and asked for nothing. 

Aragorn’s breath came out labored, his heart betraying him, the very Evenstar on his chest feeling as if it was burning, and he met Legolas’ concerned eyes. Slowly, Aragorn placed his hand on Legolas’ shoulder, trailing up to the elf’s sharp jaw, and even though every strand of hair on his fair head was perfectly in place, Aragorn pushed the front ones back, tucking them behind a pointed ear. The moment felt perilous, in that it was so quick and yet a forever, where Aragorn watched Legolas’ questioning gaze, and his heart fluttered - so _true_ was Legolas in everything, so completely loyal. _What would you say? Would you stay? Would you stay, even if your heart carries you beyond my reach? Even if my heart has betrayed me, to grow anew stronger in your presence? Could I ever hope you could pledge the same?_

Aragorn let his thumb trail Legolas’ chin, slowly landing on his bottom lip, and from the way he knew Legolas must hear his heartbeat, he wondered if the elf could know already. 

But before Aragorn could say anything, the elf looked back at him with a smile, but Aragorn saw the brief window of pain flash across his eyes, and now that he looked at the elf, all his smiles felt as if they were forged only to make Aragorn feel good and prevent him from seeing the elf’s sadness, and Aragorn searched his face, desperate for something, anything. The moment felt lost, and Aragorn withdrew his hand, hoping that Legolas was not so thoroughly discomforted by his act of selfishness that he could afford to place the same loyalty to Aragorn still. 

Legolas bent his head, his eyes stilling on Aragorn’s open face, before he noticed Eomer watching, and he broke their gaze, heading towards the other room quickly. Aragorn felt a cold flush take through him, the loss of Legolas’ endless warmth within those kind eyes already missed. Noticing the warrior behind him, Aragorn turned on his heel, nodding to Eomer irritably, stalking off to the royal hall, barely missing the elf prince tucked away in the next room’s corner, his breathing fast and his heart racing painfully, as if to cleave his chest in two. 

_“I would be her to you, would let you wear that veil as you took me, would let lust filled eyes soften with a love distant and of my very kin, while you dwell in the depths of my soul. I would give you all that I may have, even if it was a fool’s hope. If only you should want it, I would give it until the end of time.”_ The muted elvish tore out of the prince, his eyes shut in pain, heart thundering with want, knuckles white, but his devotion was met with silence; Aragorn had gone already. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this will be a two chapter story (with of course, some shameless passionate sex). I am brand new to this fandom, and I plan to stay quite long! :) I am an artist first, and have done some Aralas works on my tumblr [ here](https://disgruntledwing.tumblr.com/post/640276571644723200/long-has-elessar-caught-the-attention-of-even-the) and [ here](https://disgruntledwing.tumblr.com/post/640432147191169024/legolas-didnt-stare-longingly-at-this-man-the) although I plan to do much more, if you were interested. I am obsessed with these two, so I am happy to write into the void, but comments are always welcome :,) thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! I've been terribly busy with exams every which way, but I wanted to get this chapter up. I think there will be one more, which I am working on but want to make sure is good. I take advantage of the wordy/long way Tolkien writes, but it's just too damn fun to not exploit haha. hope you enjoy!! I absolutely loved your comments - they definitely made me excited to keep going, so thank you for reading and caring! <3

Blue eyes dragged over blood-stained grass while the horses galloped onwards, and Aragorn pulled just so on the reins so he could ride a half a step behind the elf, watching him without being noticed. They rode to Isengard, the white light of the sun feeling dull after so much death the night before. So much blood, dark pools and stolen gasps lost to no one. The warm grass Aragorn knew well was stained almost black, ground down under bodies, and it was hard to remember the beauty of Helm’s Deep before such horror. Aragon had watched Legolas walk through the corpses, eyes dragging over the countless bodies lost, too many of them being elves. The archer’s step faltered after a particularly dense strip where many bodies twisted cruelly in death lay. Of blonde hair twisted in black blood, and blue eyes stilled in grief. Aragorn watched him from the bridge, his heart aching for the sorrow he knew the elf must have felt. He knew that Legolas did not know them, but to see so many of his kind dead, so many proud and dignified souls lost to so much cruelty...Aragorn knew that it would move the prince greatly. 

Gandalf allowed for one stop, at the foot of a nearby forest at midday, and Aragorn set out in the trees eagerly. Grey eyes searched for white petals that glowed in the shadows, remembering a meeting with the prince years prior. Legolas had visited Rivendell, Aragorn still not yet a man, when he had happened upon the elf in the forest. Aragorn had seen him before, but never for long, and never so close. The fair headed prince had been singing softly, his slim fingers touching Alfirin flowers on the cool green floor. Aragorn had fallen silent, listening to the beautiful melody from the elf’s lips. It had felt improper to even breathe, the melody was so divine, as if Aragorn had been dreaming. Eventually, Legolas had turned, his serene face finding Aragorn’s hiding place immediately. Aragorn stepped forward and hastily attempted an apology, but all the elf had done was smile and turn back to the flowers. 

_ “Do you favor the Aflirin flower?” _ Aragorn asked quietly, his curiosity untamed. Legolas didn’t seem as if he had heard, and Aragorn flushed, feeling foolish for talking with the Prince of Mirkwood out of line. But before he could turn to leave, Legolas had answered, his soft utterances making Aragorn strain to hear him. 

_ “I do. You are lucky. I do not stumble upon many of them in Mirkwood. It is a gift from Valinor to shine so brightly.” _

Aragorn considered the flowers again, his steps closer careful.  _ “It is fitting then that the elves would hold them so dearly then. They are far closer in beauty to you than they are to I.” _ Aragorn said respectfully, his grey eyes catching the way this elf was exceptionally fair up close. 

Legolas laughed lightly, his eyes finally taking in all of Aragorn’s appearance.  _ “You speak as if you are of my kin. Perhaps you are closer than you may think.”  _

Aragorn ducked his head, unsure why the prince was being so kind to a man speaking his language, when any other visiting elves had always cared little for him.  _ “My name is Estel. I am here on the account of Lord Elrond. I have long since known you, or perhaps only my curious young eyes have, without the ritual of proper introduction, Prince Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood.”  _ Aragorn bent his knee, and he was surprised to see Legolas frown. 

_ “You needn’t do so. We are not in the realm of councils or great halls, but in the forest, where there is no such rank. I am glad to have met you, Estel.”  _ Legolas said clearly, making to leave. Aragorn nodded, watching the elf rise gracefully and disappear into the trees, his steps deceptively slow. 

Aragorn cut through the trees, the memory fresh in his mind even after so many long years. He wondered if Legolas remembered the meeting with any fondness.  _ Ah, yes.  _ Grey eyes caught sight of a white glow below a wide shrub, and he moved to collect the Alfirin carefully. His fingers looked so dirty against the white petals, so  _ mortal  _ compared to the eternal beauty, and Aragorn’s mind instantly went to the softness of Legolas’ face under his fingers. The flawless beauty under his undeserving hand. 

Before they rode once more, Aragorn gave Legolas the flower quietly, trying to downplay how much his body was bent on seeing how Legolas reacted to it. How selfish, he wondered, was it to find so much joy in making the elf feel bonded to him, how simple of a gesture it was when he wanted it to yield grand results, wanted the flower to make Legolas remember the instance with the same fondness and look upon Aragorn with appreciation for only him. 

Legolas blinked, his bemusement making Aragorn’s face feel warm. “You mean this for me?” 

Aragorn looked away, hand going up to scratch at his beard nervously. “You’ve of no obligation to keep it. I just happened upon it. I know you are partial to those. It was very extemporaneous.” Aragorn lied, risking a glance towards the elf. It was in fact very deliberate, Aragorn wanting to make the elf’s burden lighter in any way that he could, but that was not to be released from the constraints of his chest. 

Legolas looked speechless, and Aragorn shifted awkwardly, never used to seeing the prince anything but perfectly poised. The elf grasped the flower carefully, laying it out in his palm, the other hand hovering over it reverently. He finally smiled, his blue eyes warm with gratitude. 

_ “Thank you, Estel.”  _

Aragorn smiled hesitantly, feeling unusually vulnerable, and licked his lips. He was pleased that it was welcomed, but he wondered if it was worth the risk of gracelessness that seemed to follow whenever he followed such impulses. Legolas carefully placed the flower under the pin of cloak, Aragorn looking away quickly before the elf caught him. Aragorn made to go to the horses, before Legolas’ soft voice made him turn back. 

_ “You were so hesitant to even be in my presence that day. As if I hadn’t noticed your grey eyes watching in on whatever council I happened to attend before. It was amusing.”  _ Legolas murmured, mouth twitching up. 

Aragorn stilled, the quiet words hammering into his brain. Gimli passed them, looking sour up at the pair. As he brushed by, his audible grumbling sure to be sourced from not understanding the elvish. Aragorn turned back to the prince. 

_ “I had hoped you hadn’t noticed most of my surveillance. I did not learn to keep my guard yet. You had no reason to suffer my imprudence, and yet you only ever met me with kindness.”  _

Legolas sniffed, a rare grin on his mouth, and he shook his head.  _ “I did not see it as imprudence. You forget yourself, Aragorn. I would not have talked to you unless I had wanted to.”  _ Legolas teased. 

_ “Perhaps not.”  _ Aragorn allowed, his chest feeling lighter than it had in days, and he wanted to stay there, with the breeze from the forest flowing past him, brushing Legolas’ fair hair up, his face trained solely on the ranger. 

_ “One could say it was not my fault. It was borne of a dream, hearing you sing to the trees. I had never heard someone sing like that, not until…”  _ Aragorn trailed off mindlessly, knowing whose name should follow, but he didn’t want to name her. It was all so disordering, to grasp this newfound fixation on his dearest friend, while a piece of his heart was behind in Rivendell. 

“Arwen.” Legolas provided, his voice quiet. “She is as enchanting as she is beautiful.” 

Aragorn bit the inside of his cheek, regretting the turn of conversation greatly. “I - yes. Indeed.” 

Legolas looked past Aragorn, blue eyes darker from a passing cloud overhead. Aragorn watched him, feeling helpless, knowing that he ruined something. The elf looked back at him, his eyes guarded and face calm, and Aragorn could’ve cursed. 

“You are closer to reuniting with her, which is joyous news. Thank you again, Aragorn.” Legolas said lightly, turning to mount his horse. Aragorn watched after him, fists clenched. 

After he gathered his things and mounted his own horse, Aragorn’s mind spun with regret for thinking something so simple as a flower would make Legolas owe him any more attention.

As their horses took off on the first gallop, the Alfirin flower unfastened from Legolas’ cloak, whipping back, its glowing white petals turning Aragorn’s head immediately. A tanned hand suddenly stretched out to grab it, Aragorn adjusting his hold as not to break the petals. Legolas slowed his horse, watching the interaction with wide eyes. Aragorn stared at the flower, eyes moving to look at the prince in front of him. 

High cheekbones had the briefest hint of red undertones, golden strands of hair looking white from the sun, his sharp face open and... _ beautiful.  _ Aragorn’s hands ached to hold him by the cheek, rest his own head against the elf’s, and drink in his steadying presence. Instead, Aragorn extended his hand slowly. 

“A flower as beautiful as this does not do well to be in my hands. It is a gift from Valinor. It could only be for you.” Aragorn insisted quietly, and he ignored the softness of Legolas’ hand as he took the flower back. Urging his horse, Aragorn rushed forward, lessening the growing gap between them and the rest of the group. 

Legolas stayed behind for a moment, blue eyes looking after Aragorn. He fastened the flower under his pin more carefully, and slim fingers faltered, feeling the petals once more. He knew not if he were awake sometimes, when Aragorn got such a earnest look in his eye, whether or not his dreams had materialized before him. But the ever festering hurt of her mention, the ever pressing knowledge that Aragorn was surely projecting his missing of her onto Legolas in distorted glimmers, untrue and false promises...For which Legolas did not fault him for, he understood very dearly the feeling of being split by your heart, when impossible walls were set to prevent true happiness. But it grew so difficult to orient his person between such ambiguities, when he knew what he saw was not what Aragorn saw.  _ Never could see.  _ As truly despairing the world was around him, the death and pain so deep in the earth, Legolas had never been as fulfilled as he was by the ranger’s side. 

Legolas turned the horse, catching up with the group. It was just so very difficult, so trying, to know that whatever Aragorn seemed to want, Legolas knew what he truly wanted in his heart.  _ Her.  _ No matter how brief a love he could give to the man, would Aragorn not carry with great shame for having done something with the elf. No matter that such a dream would be worth a million lifetimes to feel, to feel Aragorn’s love, even briefly and misguided, for Legolas.  _ It is not what you truly want.  _ And it had been long since Legolas bound himself to that fate. Long, since days in Rivendell, when grey eyes, rugged features, and strong muscles captured Legolas’ heart and stirred a desire he wasn’t sure he could ever find the end to the depths of. 

\---

The Golden Hall was full of warm bodies, hot exhalations tinged with ale, a soft hue of warm orange light bathing the people of Rohan. Aragorn drank slowly, grey eyes watching around the room. As seemingly second nature, his eyes were bound to wherever the fair head of his elf friend stood, and he tried not to stare too long, favoring circuits of the room until he could watch the prince again. 

He could hear Gimli’s deep laughs from afar, notice the glistening of ale spilled on his beard. Ever in contrast, the elf gracefully lifted each succeeding ale, looking at the most very warm. Aragorn grinned when Gimli tumbled back, losing the contest. Legolas spread his fingers, looking concerned, and Aragorn watched him closely, his heady head excited to see the elf even a little out of place. 

Legolas’ mouth moved, and Aragorn strained to hear it, commanding all of his will to listen to whatever the elf said many paces away. 

“- slight tingle in my fingers. I think it’s affecting me.” 

Eomer considered the elf, a smirk on his mouth, and Aragorn felt an irrational pull to cut in between the two, and prevent the man’s eyes from laying on Legolas’ form any longer. Legolas made to go outside, and Aragorn immediately downed the rest of his ale, intent on following. 

Legolas stood illuminated against the dark mountains, royal blues and twinkling stars swimming in the sky above. Aragorn stepped next to him, overlooking the railing. 

“One might dare to venture that your mind might be impaired in some fashion.” Aragorn quipped, and he smiled when Legolas shut his eyes in exasperation. 

“I am not opposed to wines, having had many in my father’s halls, but the ales of these men leave little room for clear thought. It is of a much higher concentration.” 

Aragorn faced the elf, knowing full well he was correct. The spirituous drinks he had taken were starting to mount in his own body, the effects making his blood sing and his heart beat harder. Grey eyes stared intensely at the elf’s beautiful profile. 

“Are you to imply that men are of a much less dignified nature? That we seek whatever rush thunders through our veins, be it war, an ale, or the promise of another’s body?” Aragorn asked, and he meant it to be light, joking even, but it fell too seriously, and Legolas turned to watch him, light eyes searching his face. 

After a moment, his soft voice filled the air. “Elves are not governed by the thrill of impulsivity. If it be war, or wine, or the desire of another’s heart, we do not move from one to the next so easily. It is deliberate, fully knowing what we are pledging, what we offer, and we continue despite such risks.” Legolas said honestly, his mind alight and his mouth looser. 

Aragorn stepped closer, a breath away from the archer. He watched blue eyes widen and hot breaths come short, and Aragorn felt predatory, as if he had trapped such a beautiful animal, knowing that he should let it go, but he wanted to sink his teeth into its warmth, wanting to surround the beauty that drew his eyes every movement. 

“That is to presume we do not hold certain things above, as worthier of our promise of time. For there are things in this world that are more beautiful than anything else we have yet to see. For the heart of men is fast and edacious, until we offer it freely. In that, then, it is profound to be bound to one thing, when the world of men is filled with temptations. To desire one thing above all else, under the threat of death, without any promise of reciprocation, does the promise transcend the man and prove his devotion.” Aragorn whispered, large fingers rising to hover over smooth plains of the elf’s face. His heart thundered louder than it would even in the midst of battles, for this battle scene was unknown to him. 

Legolas leaned forward, eyes meeting Aragorn’s grey ones. “And what of those that are immortal? To bind themselves to one mortal, for long years, without any indication it would be returned? To live countless lifetimes, only to desire one mortal more than anything else? To know that loving them is grievous mortality, a crueler fate than falling on a blade. A broken heart, even if the mortal believed himself to pledge his heart back?” Slender fingers touched rough stubble, following the line of a sharp jaw. “Tell me, for the fire in my veins begs me to when my mind pleads I turn and leave. Could you ever grasp the depths of it?” 

“I cannot even grasp the depths of my own, for I have been blind to the way they have taken root deep within me. But it is all I think about. Above all else, it is all I want.” Aragorn admitted softly, his hands cradling Legolas’ face. 

A roar of laughter sounded behind them, and Legolas broke away instantly, his eyes sharpening and his jaw tensed. Aragorn turned, his mind still ruled by the fog of fervent arousal, and he finally saw Gimli march towards them. 

“Aye! There you are, laddies. I want another round - I ain’t losing to no soft bellied pointy-eared elf! Let us put it all on the table once more. Winner takes all!” Gimli bellowed excitedly, completely unaware of the state he had found his companions in.

Legolas exhaled lightly, his hand going up to his chest. With a flush on his cheeks, he shook his head, looking decidedly frustrated with himself. He stepped away from Aragorn again, straightening and within a second, looking as perfect as always. Aragorn fought not to close the distance once more. 

“Yes, Master Dwarf. Let us continue inside. I do not know where my mind has gone, the ale changes many things. Excuse me, Aragorn.” Legolas said quietly, and without looking back, he followed Gimli back in the great hall. 

Aragorn stiffened, his throat closing, and it felt as if his legs were made of lead, pulling him down through the earth and disappearing from the light of the beautiful prince. Deeper and darker, into pits as inky and desolate as the mines, where the air felt too limited, did Aragorn’s heart seem to fall. As soon as the pair disappeared, Aragorn grit his teeth and barely stopped himself from striking the pillar next to him. His stomach curled in knots, chest feeling simultaneously heavy and empty. He watched the mountains, eyes ticking off unimportant details, trying to calm down. What a deluge of emotions, when want and love festered into loss and anger so quickly. When he was  _ so  _ close. 

Aragorn exhaled sharply, his frame tense. Perhaps it was for the better. Loyalty and love were not always interwoven, and he did not wish to corner Legolas into something he did not want deep down; especially from someone who was so wholly loyal that he might allow Aragorn’s advances on the pretenses of companionship. But the ale did not change many things - no, not for Aragorn. It had simply emboldened Aragorn, the thought of going longer without touching the prince unbearable. And if it was so preferable not to force something, then why did it rip through his chest so viciously, as if a Morgul blade had penetrated his beating heart? 

Leaving Arwen behind had felt so cutting, to know that he might never look upon her face again. But that had shifted, or rather, had been joined by a despair so damning that his love for Arwen paled in comparison, a longing so deep in his bones for the Prince of Mirkwood. He could not fault the love of Arwen, for she was everything he should want, everything he  _ had  _ wanted. He couldn’t rationalize it, and every moment he thought himself foolish, the ache in his chest and the arousal deep in the pit of his stomach proved truth in his heart. 

Every touch of her skin, every kiss of her lips, every promise shared between looks...it had remained true at the time. It was appalling, revolting even within the safeties of his mind to admit then, that Argaorn would trade it all to touch Legolas’ beautiful face so closely just one more time. 

\--- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we are thaaaat much closer to getting to the Smut ;) as always, comments/any thoughts are very sexy. until the next one! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello all! I apologize for the wait - I'm in a very busy semester so it's hard to find as much time as I would like. I finally got around to finishing this, and I am mostly happy with it. I am going to update the tags because there is some fairly graphic sex, so please please heed that!! any sexual content doesn't start until about halfway through the chapter, so please don't read if you are not interested. I will talk more at the end, until then, on w the show! ;)

Conversations were clipped short, touches more scarce than Aragorn had ever remembered being, and if Aragorn didn’t see the elf every time he closed his eyes, he knew he looked at the prince directly so rarely he would forget the familiar face little by little by the way he avoided such thoughts. He was sure Legolas was ignoring him as well, although he wasn’t sure if it was in reaction to him instigating such, or if he truly did not want to interact with the man. That required dwelling on the facilities of the elf’s mind and whether Aragorn had lost favor with the elf, and that was more time than he had. Or, could give, rather, because while he had more time spent within the recesses of his mind as he roamed restlessly around Rohan, the thought of examining his heart was something too great to fathom. The shame he still felt for having almost forced himself upon the elf lurked under his skin, never far, and the mental barrier he had erected around the elf seemed stronger for it. 

The sun shone brightly above, the perch Aragorn sat in becoming one of his favorites over the past couple of days, and he smoked silently. His legs strained fitfully; he was unused to so much inaction during such perilous times. He loathed the knowledge that he would always prefer to be out on the battlefield, proving not to others of his skill or heart, but to himself of what he must suffer, what he wanted to bear the weight to earn his name. He knew it was not salubrious to desire the sting of battle, Gandalf would be sure to remind him, but it was not as much as the thrill of felling evil as much as it was the forced chance to present himself as he was, ready to be tested and tried, and judged to be the man he would hope to be. A punishment, almost, although it wasn’t as if he did want it still. He had historically enjoyed the exhilaration of battle before, but then it had been under less overwhelming odds and...Well, it was made better through the bonds of brotherhood, and honor and trust, and the one that inspired the most in him was…

Aragorn shifted his legs, refocusing to avoid forbidden mental realms. 

“Aye, there you are laddie. Exactly where I did not want to have to find you. Dwarf legs are not for climbing such steep ladders!” Gimli grumbled behind Aragorn, and the only indication of the man’s surprise was the halting of his breath. Gimli thudded down beside the man, following Aragon’s gaze towards the distant White Mountains. Aragorn let his breathing resume, continuing to look out across the yellow plains. He had traveled across the yellow plains many times, but the sight of the cobalt blue behind white mountains that shined under the sun was so beautiful against the rolling grasses that glowed golden, that he never could become familiar with them. To be familiar was to understand and to allow undervaluing of such things, and he feared that he had already misplaced familiarity in other far more important parts of his life that were ill-founded. 

“Your kind delves too deep into the earth to hold such disdain for ladders,” Aragorn mumbled around his pipe, blowing smoke out to the side. 

“Well, there’s no need to make the rungs so few! Not even all men are tall like you or the elf,” Gimli said gruffly, but Aragorn could tell that in his own way Gimli was trying to tempt conversation. Aragonr supposed that in his ignoring of Legolas, he had also ignored Gimli. 

Aragorn wanted to say something, but his throat closed, and any words died before they had a chance to fill the space. He never was one to talk needlessly, and in his self-proclaimed exile, he wasn’t able to shift his emotions around so easily. The silence continued for several minutes, Gimli’s loud breathing the only sound. 

“The elf was sent to get you, but he did not seem as willing as he normally is. For an _elf_ , he is usually surprisingly amenable,” Gimli finally said, and Aragorn wished he was in the fields, moving swiftly so that the grass rolled over him, his palms feeling the sharp stalks pulling him down. He wished to feel the steady breeze around him, small waves of crisp air passing through his garb and dancing across his skin, pulling the heavy feel of grime and blood on his body. To feel the moisture in the dirt despite the high sun, and most importantly, the silence of the world that never beckoned he divulged his mind nor heart. 

“Oh?” Aragorn answered, hoping that if posed obtuse enough, the dwarf would dislike pressing so much that he would give up. 

Gimli finally turned to look at the man. Aragorn didn’t allow himself to move at all. The white caps of the mountains had grey dots moving past, a flock of songbirds most likely, and Aragorn feigned interest, knowing that it would only be worse if he looked back. Suddenly, Gimli’s booming laugh startled Aragorn, who glanced at the dwarf, questioning. 

“Dwarves are never so confusing as Men and Elves, nigh, not even the Dwarf women. I know not what is wrong between you two, but I cannot say that it isn’t entertaining to see. Not even I have managed to incense the elf so easily,” Gimli chuckled, pulling his helmet off. Deep red hair looked almost orange in the sunlight, and the grime outlines by the now absent helmet made Aragorn grin despite himself. 

“Perhaps if you don’t bathe while you have the chance, our elf will find fighting alongside you even less favorable, and I may no longer be in such a position to be at odds,” Aragorn said with a smile, and the answering laugh from the dwarf made his shoulders feel lighter than they had in days. 

The following silence was easy and comforting, and the high sun felt warmer still. Gimli pulled out his own pipe and with the aid of Aragorn, began inhaling the little pipeweed he had left. Still fewer were the times that they had been able to indulge themselves, to slow down and enjoy the very world they meant to save. 

The sun passed across the sky, and not twenty minutes later did Aragorn notice the blazing white sheen of hair from the elf he had been dutifully ignoring. The elf was walking up the path, or trying to rather, while a couple of children darted from a shrub to meet him. Gimli’s snore made Aragorn turn briefly, but he quickly looked back down at Legolas, any thought of anything else disappearing quickly. Perhaps it was the pipeweed, or the easy comfort Gimli had granted him, or the thought that Legolas did not know that he could see him, for Aragorn’s self-restraint broke easily. 

The children were talking excitedly, probably only a couple years, Aragorn mused. They seemed enthralled at catching the elf alone, and Aragorn saw how their mouths opened in awe at seeing the beauty of the elf so close. For he shined under the high sun while the kids were dark under the shadow of the tower Aragorn sat on. Whereas the yellow plains turned golden under the sun, Legolas only turned brighter, looking as if the Valar had graced the earth before them. Dirty little hands reached hesitantly towards Legolas’ garb, barely reaching his knees, and Aragorn could sense Legolas’ surprise. 

Even straining, Aragorn could barely make out what the children said. They were thanking the elf, mixed with various questions about Legolas’ hair or ears, but the fervent warmth coming from the children was undeniably true. Aragorn shifted closer, pushing Gimli slightly to the side, to see closer. Gimli slid against the wooden wall, his snores quieting. 

Aragorn could tell that Legolas was tired, and that his face was tight with tension, his eyes looking grey. Aragorn briefly wondered where he went - where did the elf find solace in a plain of rolling grasses, so far from the shade of trees? Aragorn himself felt a vulnerability out in the open, but he knew it would be nothing to the weight the elf must bear. He was sure that was part of the elf’s clear pain, but Aragorn knew deeper that it would be foolish to label his pain as only just. _I did that._

Legolas’ face, still beautiful as ever, revealed his discomfort. Slowly, Aragorn saw the children’s innocent unawareness broke Legolas down, who looked down at them with a kinder face than he had been wearing. And was that not what Legolas always seemed to do? To wear a mask for those around him, who depended on him, who thanked him but really _took_ from the endlessly giving elf? Aragorn felt no better than those children, who had the guise of youth and immaturity to defend them, for he had only ever seemed to take from the elf who owed him nothing. Aragorn could hear the soft voice of the elf, who crouched to see the children. He was wary, Aragorn could tell, probably having little intention on interacting with Rohan’s children, but he seemed kind still, like he knew how much the interaction would mean to the children. 

Aragorn pushed against Gimli more, desperate to make out what Legolas was saying, desperate to hear the voice he had missed so much and heard so infrequently now in the waking world. Gone was the thought of restraint, for the cover of the tower and the rarity of such an interaction before him was so tempting that he couldn’t think about what he _should_ do. 

“- an elf, yes,” Legolas said quietly, and the shrill sounds of excitement from the children was amusing, for even the confirmation of what they knew to be true was amazing. 

“Where is your home? My mother always told me about elves, but I can hardly believe you are real,” the eldest boy said, his blonde curls caked with dirt. 

Aragorn caught the smallest twitch of Legolas’ mouth. “I am from Mirkwood Forest, which is very far from here.” Legolas’ voice was very soft. 

“My father and brother died at Helm’s Deep. Mother says we all would have died if you and your friends didn’t come,” the eldest boy continued seriously, and he stepped forward awkwardly, his hand held out. Elves had never been fond of unnecessary touch, much less from a dirty child, and Aragorn stared as Legolas looked down at the boy. He hid his discomfort well. Unfortunately, the rest of the children realized that they also wanted to touch the elf, if under the guise of thanks, and they stuck their dirty hands out as well. 

The way Legolas’ eyes widened, Aragorn could tell that he wasn’t sure what to do. Rare was the elf ever put in a position with such an odd dynamic as human children, but he did not leave the children like he may have wanted. Legolas shifted his weight, twisting to grab something in his pack on his back. Quick fingers brought out a handful of beautiful white flowers, and Legolas looked down at them briefly before looking back up at the intent children. _Alfirin._ Aragorn stopped breathing. 

“These flowers grow on the tombs of your kings, for it is a divine flower. For now, it is best in your hands, and not over any tombs so soon,” Legolas said, and he placed the white petals in each of the outstretched hands in front of him. 

The children considered the gift, looking back at the elf. They looked dirtier the longer Aragorn looked at them, the sign of travel and stress on their bodies evident, as well as the unfair contrast next to Legolas. 

“Do you elves like these flowers? Mother says it isn’t fit for but the very best of men,” the boy said, torn between feeling undeserving of the flower and protective of this gift. 

“It is my own favorite, yes. Your mother is right. But it is too beautiful to never touch, even if just briefly,” Legolas said with a small smile, standing up. The children looked up at the elf, their faces slack with awe. Their little hands held the white flower delicately, and for once, they were silent. 

Legolas bowed his head once more before continuing up the hill, his silent steps followed by intense grey eyes. Aragorn could see one more Alfirin flower petal peeking out of Legolas’ pack, and the foolish thought that it would be the one Aragorn had given him filled his mind. It couldn’t be - it had been too long, Aragorn was sure, but the thought that it _could_ be made Aragorn’s chest feel tight. Seeing Legolas disappear past the steps to the Great Hall, Aragorn turned back to his post, his senses thoroughly wrecked. He felt sweat line up his back, and his heart felt flighty; the crisp wind and natural hum around him felt too normal for what went on in his body. 

Gimli was still asleep, and Aragorn allowed himself a few moments to find his head. The interaction was not even for him, did not involve him in _any_ way, but he felt as if all those moments ignoring the archer had been for naught if he still could react so strongly to something so insignificant. To see Legolas so kind again, so soft and quiet...even his presence so many paces away was grounding in the way where one second Aragorn could feel warm and secure, and the very next second cast out to the wind by the cascade of emotions that threatened to spill. 

The fire in Aragorn’s pipe had long since died, and he dumped the ashes off the side restlessly, watching the grey spread ride the wind, feeling like his mind had gone with it. 

\---

Aragorn slipped by the door, packing his pipe as long strides took him outside. He found himself able to sleep less and less during the nights, his body remembering nights on the run where any sleep granted was infrequent and short. The easy quiet of the Great Hall was so foreign, that it felt almost a trap in his sleeping mind. Turning, Aragorn caught a cloaked figure looking out at the view. _Legolas._

Aragorn stilled. Should he follow? The elf would have already heard of his presence, and this misstep could not be attributed to any other demanding task he must go to, seeing as it was not yet dawn, like he had the past days. Aragorn’s legs moved forward slowly. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Aragorn joined the archer’s watch. Navy and indigo streaks tore across the sky, fading into a soulless black. Aragorn kept his gaze trained ahead; the sight of such beautiful colors on the elf even cloaked was too much; the sight in front of him was enough to worry about. 

“The stars are veiled. Something stirs in the East, a sleepless malice,” Legolas said quietly, glancing at Aragorn. “The eye of the enemy is moving.” 

Aragorn stared back, wishing he could see what Legolas saw. The dark sky was eerie but beautiful, and Aragorn decided that the sights from Edoras was one of the very best he had seen. It looked as if the very sky dipped down into the earth, the view was so wide and all-consuming. Suddenly, Legolas’ eyes widened, his frame turning quickly. 

“ _He is here!_ ” 

Merry’s scream for help sounded within the hall, and Aragorn took off instantly.

Aragorn burst into the room, Legolas at his back, and he saw Pippin hold the Palantir wreathed with flames as if bound, his mouth in a soundless scream of torture. Aragorn charged forward, hands open to grab the fiery orb. 

He grabbed it with a jolt, his sight immediately falling into darkness. His body felt suspended, the room he knew himself to be in gone. _Elessar._ The dark speech echoed in his head, seemingly far and near at the same time, and then Aragorn saw infinite flames, leaping up into black heights. Aragorn whirled around, his limbs feeling useless, trying to find the Great Eye, the black speech roaring around him. _Elessar, you are no king. The world of men will fall, and all darkness will cover the world...you are no king!_ Aragorn grit his teeth, bowing his head and refusing to talk. _Elessar, look at me._ Every stumble he made felt endlessly heavy, as if he was being dragged down into darkness, every second feeling an eternity. He shut his eyes, body burning in agony, but he did not relent, dared not look up into the Eye nor talk. Sauron’s black speech thundered around him, Aragorn’s ears splitting, but suddenly it stopped, the flames around him fading into the dark hall. Aragorn felt as if his head was made of stone, the way it fell to the ground. He could not open his eyes, but could feel air returning to his lungs, the whips of Sauorn’s fury ebbing away. The thud of the Palantir hitting the ground and leaving Aragorn’s limp hands did not register in Aragorn’s mind. 

Legolas’ hands tightened around Aragorn, and the steady presence behind Aragorn beckoned him to flutter his eyes open. He could hear the Palantir rolling away, could still hear the distant black speech, but the feeling of Legolas perched above him protectively was all he could filter through his mind to hold onto. Aragorn tried to push himself up, but Legolas’ fingers did not loosen. The struggle to get up was enough to mask how much he would want to remember the feel of Legolas’ concern and slender hands pulling at him. 

“Fool of a Took!” Gandalf thundered, and Aragorn caught the Palantir was finally still and silent under a dark cloak. Gandalf rushed towards Pippin’s still form, and Aragorn strained to listen. Immediately, he felt Legolas’s hands, which were holding him so closely, almost _desperately,_ leave. Aragorn glanced back, knowing he should care not, knowing he should move to where Pippin and Gandalf was, but the way Legolas moved back as if burned felt so abrupt... it cut deeper than the pain he had endured from the Palantir, the feeling of shame and longing and _want_ stinging under Legolas’ clear rejection. 

Legolas’s face was tight with distress, blue eyes dark in the shadows, his mouth was a thin line of willed silence. He did not look at Aragorn. Long blonde braids looked grey in the light, and Aragorn could not stop looking at the elf who so plainly did not want to return his gaze. 

Pippin’s strangled answer to whatever Gandalf had asked him finally made Aragorn tear his eyes away. He felt shame for not going to Pippin as soon as he could, but the greatest shame was the way that he could see the bond between himself and the archer was tearing so quickly. He was not a fool - he had known that his actions would strain their relationship, but he did it because it was _right._ It was wrong to place his love so forcibly upon the elf. But he had hoped that the time would pass, that he could suppress himself enough to forget his desires, and the air between them would settle kindly. That did not seem possible anymore; Aragorn knew that he had not waited long enough to even hope for such a reprieve. How long had he sent mixed signals, requests and positions that the archer did not ask for, to wear away at their brotherhood? He knew Legolas would still be behind his back just as closely in battle, would still leap to unforeseen heights to aid Aragorn, but that was sickly sweet to know so well. It mattered not if Aragorn drove Legolas to such great discomfort, for his devotion to the man would continue. As easily as it seemed to be to deserve it less and less, the loyalty Aragorn was given never would waver. Watching Gandalf question Pippin, the tension in Aragorn’s mind and body only increased. 

_No more of this._ He must not falter. To keep his heart and intentions secret was only respectful, the only way to earn what Legolas continued to give him. He would not watch or needlessly talk with the elf, nor think of him, not even when the elf was unaware. _No more._

Aragorn stepped forward unevenly, intent on helping pick up Pippin to take to the Great Hall, where Gandalf nodded his head impatiently. 

Heavy was the heart that rang true, that was most definitely veritable. But heavier was the heart that was damned within in its own body, pushed down and not to beat even in the safeties of the mind or of dreams. 

\---

In a way, Aragorn was glad to be moved every which way, to ride to Dunharrow occupied with the onslaught of war plans, numbers, and hope that more men would come to Theoden’s call. It left so little time for any thoughts of his own state, and it was far easier to lose himself in preparation for the greatest battle their age had seen. 

He had met with Elrond only seconds earlier, his hand thrumming with the weight of Anduril. To hear so plainly the need for his efforts, to save all of Middle Earth, to save Arwen, was enough to right his mind into recognizing what was truly important. Where his heart pointed did not matter, for it was folly anyways. It was in Arwen who he had pledged to love and to save, and to the Paths of the Dead it must lead him. He dared not dwell on the thought of leaving Legolas on the eve before battle, but he knew he could not expect anything, _should_ not expect anything. And why should he? He had not risked any unnecessary word with the elf yet, nor even a thought. As soon as any thought threatened to bring his exiled heart back into beating, Aragorn willed it away with such fervor that it dared not return easily. Gimli had certainly still noticed the worsening of their relationship, but he either did not know who to address, or if he even should. The icy silence between the ranger and archer was not questioned. 

If Aragorn had his way, he would see to it that the Realm of Men be returned to its glory, that Middle Earth be free again, and that was what was truly important. To cast off the darkness of Sauron was the only way to be right, to assume his destiny, and it would release Legolas from his side, and then, perhaps mind. It was foolish to let himself fall when he had such a promise to keep. 

Aragorn headed back to his tent, deliberately making his steps silent and movements swift, knowing that if he slipped away quickly, Legolas and Gimli would not be able to follow, and fewer men would see his leave. Readying his pack in his tent, Aragorn shut his eyes, knowing full well that he could be going to his doom alone. But it was right to do so. 

“You did not think to leave without me, did you?” Legolas said softly behind him, and Aragorn’s heart skipped. 

Aragorn turned, watching the sadness plain on the elf’s face. Aragorn dropped his head, guilt clawing up his throat. It had only been several days since Aragorn had talked so freely with the elf on that night of ale and joy, but hearing Legolas talk to him with so much emotion again after so much silence was almost Aragorn’s undoing. 

“I would not ask you to come to where I go. I would not bring you to where I do not know the threat,” Aragorn grunted, standing and continuing his packing. 

“I have always been by your side, have I not? Always have I heeded your word, always have I had your back. I would not think I could make it more clear that I intend to die alongside you, Aragorn.” 

Aragorn’s back tensed, his sore muscles burning with the burden of the elf’s words. “But you need not. I do not deserve your unfailing loyalty. I am not the honorable man you think I am. No. I am but a ghost, clawing desperately to stay on the path my forefathers have laid down for me, when I am not fit for kingly praise.” He finally turned to look at Legolas, who looked so broken Aragorn’s lungs stuttered. “I cannot take what you offer so kindly any longer. I have been selfish.” 

Legolas’ face fell even further at the finality in Aragorn’s voice, a rare crack in his mask showing how truly desperate he was. “ _No_ , Aragorn. It is I who is the selfish one. Because when I saw you leave that tent and stride across camp, intent on leaving, I knew what I shouldn’t burden you with. But I am to do it anyway. If only to prove that I will be at your side, in whatever capacity you wish,” Legolas breathed, his blue eyes open and pleading. 

Aragorn tilted his head away, knowing if he looked too long at the prince he would lose his self-control. This was _all_ about self-control, all about sacrifice, and he must rise above it, above even a love truer than he had ever thought possible. Was he to lose it all within moments of deciding? No, he would not. 

“Do not come closer, Legolas. I hold great shame in me, and I wish to leave you without ruining whatever remaining fondness you may have for me. You owe me nothing. I _must_ leave, you know this,” Aragorn grit out, backing away. 

Legolas’ blue eyes blazed momentarily, his growing frustration evident. “There is nothing you could do that would have me feel any different. _Nothing._ You mean to go off alone, when you know that is more dangerous. Do you not want to be victorious? To save all of Middle Earth?” Legolas demanded. When Aragorn didn’t relent, he continued. “ _Do you not want to save Arwen?_ ” Legolas snapped, his face sharp and blue eyes piercing. 

“This isn’t about her!” Aragorn hissed, grey eyes fiery. 

“How could she not be? You go now to save her life, at the forefront of your mind. Here I am, knowing this fully, before you. I know this all too well. But it does not matter. I do not wish to burden you, but if this is to be our last night, I must.”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes, too incensed by the damning mention of Arwen to think to lie. “You are wrong, it is not for her I hold this shame. It is of no consequence, because my path is the same regardless. Let me pass, Legolas.” 

Aragorn pushed forward, shoulder knocking Legolas’ forcefully. He held his pack tightly, the ring of rope burning his palm from how closely he held it. It had most of what he needed, the pack on Brego having more, and he hoped that it would be enough. He had stayed too long already. 

Legolas exhaled sharply in shock, and Aragorn ignored how furious he knew the elf would be. It mattered not, if that was the only way to break Legolas off from him, then he should be grateful for the chance. He was to do this alone, and Legolas did not owe him this extra league of loyalty. 

Aragorn ducked under the tent’s entrance, twisting swiftly to where Brego stood. Rohan’s men looked up at him in surprise, noticing his urgency, and Aragon was sure, aware of the livid elf behind him. He did not hear the elf’s steps, but he never did unless Legolas allowed him that courtesy. The fires of neighboring tents burned brightly in the inky black night, the orange and red whips illuminating Aragorn’s trail deeper towards the mountain. 

Reaching Brego, Aragorn brushed his hand alongside the horse’s neck, and Brego leaned against him. The harsh rock of the mountain stooped low over them, and there was barely a sliver of moonlight reflected on the stone. If he tilted his head, he could see the start to the path he sought, the eerie black mist spilling out from the pass under the mountain. The tents were far behind, the fires distant, for no one desired to look at, let alone come close, to such a path. 

The temptation of hoisting himself onto Brego and turning quickly towards the Paths of the Dead, avoiding Legolas’ piercing gaze, was very powerful. He was to leave alone, that was sure. But did he not owe Legolas a fairer farewell? Aragorn scowled. Was this weakness? Or the right thing to do? He knew Legolas was right behind him, most likely burning holes into the back of his very skull, but he did not know what Legolas would do if he simply left. Still, that felt abhorrent, to leave his heart so wretchedly, now that he was actually to do it. Aragorn turned, and Legolas stood only a couple breaths away. Legolas was infuriated, his anger held tightly only by the stiff way he held himself, and Aragorn wished he hadn’t turned. 

“Why do you choose to lie to me? What have I done to lose your trust? Arwen is the one you intend to marry, and I vow to help you return to her. You know that I will never let you fall. Why do you send me away, as if I have not always been at your back? As if I would not die to save you?” Legolas finally hissed, teeth bared angrily. 

Aragorn felt his temper rise again, the hot stinging of the blatant misunderstanding almost unbearable when Legolas spoke so surely. “It is not a reflection of you, my sending you away. It is a reflection of _me._ It is not about Arwen. It is about _me,_ and that is why I must send you away. You would not understand.” 

“I do not understand? Do you not hear yourself? How do I force you to see the weight of your words, if her mention does not rally your good senses? What do you not _understand_?” Legolas finally hissed, teeth bared angrily. 

Aragorn hated hearing the lies fall from the elf’s mouth, as if they confirmed how impossible his true feelings were. He was tired of Legolas trying to use Arwen as leverage, when he knew nothing about the matter. “You think as if you know everything about me. You are wrong,” Aragorn snapped, feeling his impulses sing, his helpless rage against how unfair it was bursting to take form between them. “She is beautiful, and fair, and loving. Yet I do not wish to marry her anymore. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Aragorn growled fiercely, advancing on the elf. He could see the confusion on the prince’s face, his eyes searching Aragorn’s face for answers, and it made Aragorn’s blood sing, to see the false parameters fall so quickly. 

Seeing Legolas’ resolution falter made Aragorn want to press deeper, to show him what he had pushed and pushed to reveal. How _revolted_ the elf would be, but Aragorn felt so furious that he wanted it to burn. “Do you want to know _why?_ Why I hold such great shame? Why I curse every instinct of my body, of my soul, that has bound me to something I should not want?” Aragorn spat, his mouth pulled back in a sneer. _“Because I love you,_ ” Aragorn finished cruelly, his hand coming up to hold Legolas’ chin roughly. His fingers looked filthy on Legolas’ fair skin, large digits greedily mapping out the elf’s face, knowing they would never again be able to. 

If it didn’t hurt so much to rip the confession out from his heart, Aragorn would’ve found the cascade of emotions that passed Legolas’ face amusing, to see so many conflicting emotions pass on the elf’s normally guarded face. Aragorn watched the elf’s lips briefly, before releasing his grip with finality. It was done. He had said it, bore his heart out, and would accept the exilement the elf would sentence. He could go into the depths of the mountain, surrounded by the dead, for his heart would lay here still, beating on. It was freeing, in a twisted way, to know that he had ruined things finally, that the plunge had finally been taken, and he would know now how it felt to be bound so eternally, that his heart would beat forever for Legolas, long after his body had left the world. Aragorn smiled ruefully, his eyes dropping from Legolas. _It is done._

Before Aragorn could fully turn, Legolas lurched forward, hand grabbing Aragorn’s collar, slamming him down into a brutal kiss. Aragorn stumbled back from the force, his hands flown out wide in shock. Legolas pushed against him, lean body warm and insistent. Brego neighed in surprise, but stood to still Aragorn. Legolas pulled back briefly, lips wet and his breaths hot. 

“Are you not a fool, Aragorn?” Legolas whispered, eyes fervent. “Would you not know? How long I have worn those very words for you?” 

Aragorn stared, his thoughts scattered in a million directions, and he couldn’t hold onto one word long enough to vocalize any feeling. Every sensation was heightened tenfold, enough that he wondered if he was not truly awake, and each second that passed felt endless, as if moving underwater. 

Slender pale fingers slid through messy locks of dark hair, the soft touch distantly soothing. “Since I have met you. Since moments in Rivendell, have you stolen my heart.” 

Aragorn went rigid, fearing that his senses were fooled, that the mirage in front of him was false. _It is not true._ It could not be true, surely he was mistaken. But as he stared down at the elf, who so openly gazed at him with such reverence, it was difficult to think at all. Adrenaline rushed through him, making him shaky, and he stepped back awkwardly, not trusting himself not to fall. “I don’t understand, I don’t -” Aragorn started, his voice hoarse. 

“But it is true, Estel,” Legolas said imploringly, his hands holding Aragorn’s face tightly. “I would give you anything, even if it be to another, if that is what you should want. I am bound to you. I follow where you lead. I have always. I _will_ always.” 

Aragorn raised his hands slowly, half-expecting Legolas to turn and run, and he held the elf’s face. The second he touched the elf, he could feel the shiver that ran through his body, the telling way Legolas’ eyes fluttered. “I cannot believe it. I should not be so fortunate as to touch your beautiful face. I do not deserve you, you must know this. I can not believe it, I can not fathom it in any sense,” Aragorn said softly, but he stepped closer, eyes on Legolas’ lips. 

“And why can you not? What shroud have you placed on your eyes, to be so blind to what I have always been? Did you think I followed you so closely because of what you hope to do, Elessar? For all that is still good in the world, to be saved, in a white blaze of glory that rids the world of darkness?” Legolas whispered, his blue eyes dancing. “Nay, my heart is bound to even greater things. It may be the reason why I first followed you, but it is not why I stayed so closely,” Legolas smiled, his hands resting over Aragorn’s thundering heart. 

“I still do not understand why. I cannot,” Aragorn admitted quietly, and he knew he was pushing back at every angle, desperate to allow Legolas exit at any point, but Aragorn would not hold him to words he could not mean. _Words I do not deserve._

Legolas laughed, his beautiful face almost shining in the dark. “No? Perhaps it is because you have caught my eye since I had only the briefest moments with you, when you were barely a man. Never had my heart beat so quick as when I looked upon your captivating face.” Legolas lifted a hand to caress Aragorn’s scruff, his eyes lowered to Aragorn’s lips. “Perhaps it was when I truly met you, and realized I had never nor would ever meet a man so honorable, so deeply noble, that your kingly blood is yours alone. It is not of your ancestors, because you are greater a man than all of them before you. I pledged my heart to you long before you thought to even think of me, and every year I have loved you has been longer than the two millennia of my life before you.” 

Aragorn’s breaths came out raggedly, the fantasy before him overwhelming. He wanted to _touch_ Legolas, wanted to feel the words he was promising, wanted to _keep_ them in his heart before anything could ruin it. Glancing to the side, Aragorn counted the soldiers several paces away, hoping they kept their attention elsewhere. Aragorn grabbed Legolas’ cloak roughly, pulling him towards a dark alcove he could see beyond the horses and deeper towards the mountain. 

“Aragorn?” Legolas asked lowly, but he followed nonetheless. 

“Quiet, we are not afforded much time. Come,” Aragorn urged, looking back to the soldiers quickly. 

The alcove was dark, almost completely hidden by the dark mist that surrounded the entrance into the mountain. It was not too deep, probably only a couple of strides deep, and it felt closed in from the sharp rocks joining above. Trickles of ice cold water paved their way down the sides, and the pair’s breaths came out hot. Aragorn pulled insistently at Legolas, pushing him up against the wall side abruptly. Legolas’ mouth opened in surprise, and Aragorn could feel the way his muscles naturally tensed to fight back, but Legolas let Aragorn push him.

“Did you think you could say such things without me acting on my love? Let me prove it to you, how deeply I yearn for your soul,” Aragorn murmured next to Legolas’ ear, pressing against the elf earnestly. 

“You need not ask,” Legolas gasped out, “for you’ve had me since you met me.” 

Aragorn growled, his self-control breaking, and large hands grabbed Legolas middle, pulling him towards Aragorn’s looming figure. The drips of water fell down randomly on them, trails of water on Legolas’ face looking so overwhelmingly tempting that Aragorn leaned forward to lick them, his tongue tasting Legolas’ skin. Aragorn almost groaned right there, the taste of evergreen on his skin crisp and fresh. Desperate fingers untied Legolas’ vest, and Aragorn pushed it open, excited by the way Legolas moaned out softly. Aragorn’s head felt both too light and too heavy, his breaths coming out hot and fast, but he focused on kissing along the elf’s jaw while his hands mapped out the slim torso underneath. 

“Would you have let me take you anywhere? Would you have yielded whenever I had asked?” Aragorn ventured roughly, the temptation to sink his teeth into something so beautiful, so _pure,_ and dirty it with his hands was overpowering. Legolas moaned, blonde eyelashes fluttering, and his hips jerked needily. 

“I watched you every night, so you could not see my longing. I would’ve let you anytime you asked,” Legolas admitted, and with all that had been said, said so _boldly,_ that was the one that made him blush, his fair skin tinged with pink. Aragorn’s manhood stiffened even further, the constraints of his britches suffocating. 

“You are going to ruin me,” Aragorn grit out, and he pushed himself closer to Legolas, desperate for some friction. His hands grabbed at Legolas possessively, light scratches winding around the narrow torso of the elf and dipping down to apply pressure below. 

“It would only be fair then, for I have loved you for a many longer decades than you have,” Legolas said teasingly, his breath hitching dramatically when Aragorn’s hand traveled over his nipples. 

“We are not granted enough time for what I would have liked,” Aragorn hedged, knowing that really, they had very little time at all, and it was unfair to take Legolas in such a quick, dirty manner. When he deserved to be lavished upon, under the finest halls, the white light of the gods upon him, while Aragorn tried to come as close as he could to deserving the prince. Not tucked away in a split of the mountain, freezing water and dirty moss slicked up the very surface he’d press the elf against. And yet he could not fathom stopping, could not imagine coming so close only to falter. 

“I have never wanted anything more in my life, Aragorn. If we have so little time, then _take_ me already, my love,” Legolas challenged, and blazing blue eyes met intense grey ones. Darting forward, Legolas kissed the man back, wanting that possessive fire he saw not five seconds previous, wanting the hunter to finally wake up and _take_ him. Feeling more heady than any fantasy he had ever had before, Legolas twisted, bracing himself against the wet rock. 

Aragorn’s manhood twitched at the sight, seeing the powerful elf prince he had known for so many years, allow Aragorn to take him so crudely. He would make this as transcendent as he could, for the elf deserved all that and more. Large hands spread down the elf’s back, and Aragorn leaned forward to kiss down it, reveling in the way his beard worried the elf’s skin so prettily. His hands rested at Legolas’ hips, and he ground himself against the elf, groaning from the warm pressure that pressed back against them. The way Legolas’ slender fingers flexed against the cool rock made Aragorn push harder, desperate to rip every reaction possible from the elf. 

The white marble plane of the elf’s back was intoxicating, each small moan Legolas let out paired with a shifting that caused powerful muscles to ripple beautifully, and the thought of taking someone so undeniably formidable should not have been as attractive as it was. Aragorn let himself free, the cold air stinging on his manhood, and the slick that was forming dripped down on the rock face with the movement. He pressed himself against Legolas insistently, the fluid looking obscene against such perfect skin, and the elf’s low moan made Aragorn feel heady, his head swimming with want. Slender pale hands reached back to touch him, soft fingers slicked up roaming up to touch the muscles of Aragorn’s stomach. 

Aragorn leaned forward, humming so he didn’t moan out, and pressed himself further over the elf, his sweat-slicked chest making Legolas shiver. Aragorn’s hand went down to angle himself against the elf, the little sounds Legolas was letting out making him impatient. As he leaned against Legolas’ back, the Evenstar brushed against the prince’s neck, but Legolas was too occupied to comprehend the meaning. Aragorn stared down at it, and suddenly the weight of the Evenstar seemed to increase endlessly, the chain almost burning against his skin. Aragorn grit his teeth, the thought of Arwen making his heart clench painfully. 

“What is it, Aragorn?” Legolas panted, the whites of his knuckles showing how difficult it was to hold himself up at all in such anticipation. Twisting, Legolas reached for Aragorn’s face, concern pulling his mouth down. 

“‘Tis nothing, I just...it feels so heavy against my skin, that’s all,” Aragorn whispered brokenly, and Legolas slid his hands down to the man’s neck. He looked sad all of a sudden, like the deep sorrow that was hidden in his bones was breaking free, as if expected, and that only under false pretenses would he be granted what he had wanted for so long. 

“You have to choose, for your heart can not be so torn. I would give you all the stars I could. Every day I have followed you, I have pledged my heart to you, forcing you to bear the weight you might not want. While I may not have such a star to give, my life essence is no less bound to you than hers is. I am sorry, Aragorn, for I know it is not enough,” Legolas said quietly, his voice laced with grief. 

Aragorn tilted his head against Legolas, mouth kissing softly at the elf’s cheekbone. “Hush. I have long since made my choice. I could only ever truly wear yours,” Aragorn promised, and his hands rose slowly to raise the Evenstar from his shoulders. He looked at it solemnly. He was so grateful to have met and have loved such a beautiful soul in Arwen, to have felt her heart wrap around him and breathe life into him. Give him purpose, and joy, when he had not known such a thing so long ago. For he did not regret loving her, as much as he might hope sometimes, because she made his heart open. Aragorn gently laid the Evenstar down on the rockface, above his undershirt. 

“There is no doubt in your mind to make such a decision?” Legolas whispered in wonder, and the vulnerability in his voice made Aragorn’s heart ache. 

“No. I am grateful for her, to have me understand what love is. But even that could not brace me for the torrent of devotion I feel for you,” Aragorn said quietly as he rose, his grey eyes warm. “My heart is bound to you.” 

Legolas smiled slowly, stepping forward to kiss the man, and the suddenness with which Aragorn grabbed him made him gasp out. Aragorn lifted Legolas easily, backing him up against the wall, and the brief press of his shaft against Legolas’ bare skin made the moment heavier, and his own arousal stiffened quickly. Legolas wrapped his legs around Aragorn’s hips, the tensed muscles pushing the man closer. 

“I have no patience anymore,” Aragorn hissed, rough hands holding the elf tightly, “not when you look so beautiful.” 

Before Legolas could utter a word, Aragorn bucked his hips upward, his manhood finding the cleft he desired. Legolas let out a breathy moan, realizing what was about to happen, and Aragorn forced himself into the tight channel slowly. The elf grit his teeth at the large intrusion, his fingernails digging deep into the man’s back, but he pushed himself down, desperate to join with the girth. Aragorn could feel the way Legolas overrode his body to welcome the thick length in, when he knew there was not nearly enough preparation. 

Aragorn sheathed himself, the pressure and warmth around him overpowering. He felt rabid, the knowledge that he was so intertwined with Legolas making his thrusts rough and desperate. Aragorn felt blood well up on his back from Legolas’ nails, and he pushed himself in deeper, wanting to be as far inside as he could. The elf moaned out, his blue eyes trained on Aragorn, slim hands pulling at Aragorn’s hair. His moans were breathy, tinged with desire borne deep within him, his mouth slacked aimlessly. 

Powerful thighs tightened around Aragorn’s hips, the heels of the elf’s boots pushing insistently against the small of his back. Aragorn’s body was illuminated by the dark blue glow of the moon, as well as the pale orange glimmer from the fires not too far away. Carved muscles worked tirelessly, winding and coiling, to push into the elf; so rarely was Aragorn’s body free from its garb so that the sight of his unparalleled strength among men, bred by long years in cold and solitude, did his body leave Legolas breathless. His strong jaw was framed by black locks, his beard dark under the shadow, but his _eyes_ burned. Such grey eyes that promised that everything of his body was justly powerful, for his heart burned even brighter. For this was a _king,_ the king of men, and Legolas had been truthful when he said Aragorn was more honorable than all men before him, but even that felt too short, for this king surely was touched by the Valar, better than all men before him and all men to come. 

“More,” Legolas’ shaky voice pleaded, and yet he was still surprised when Aragorn thrust into him harder, his fingers digging into Legolas’ muscled middle. 

“Legolas,” Aragorn muttered, his eyes wild, and Legolas mouthed at the man’s throat. The obscene sound of Aragorn entering Legolas’ body with such vigor was just as powerful as the very feeling of Legolas’ body pulling at Aragorn. Legolas’ breeches were lowered ungracefully by his knees, the slight swell of muscles tensing enough to keep the garment tight. His middle was exposed, his vest hanging off barely, and his own manhood pulsed in tune with Aragorn’s thrusts, the rough friction of Aragorn’s abdominal muscles a divine feeling for the elf to push up against. 

Aragorn snapped his hips forward, grinding at different angles, obsessed with the way Legolas’ eyes would roll at one angle and the way he would clench around Aragorn at another. Legolas was more powerful than him, but the way his smaller frame submitted to Aragorn so fully was blinding, and Aragorn pushed the prince against the uneven rockface harder. 

“You test me so, with such beauty from Valar,” Aragorn’s low baritone rung through the alcove. “It is as if the gods themselves wanted this, for my heart has never beat so true for something so undeniably perfect.” 

“ _I love you,_ ” Legolas said softly, pulling Aragorn down into a burning kiss. He broke it just a second later, Aragorn thrusting into him so powerfully he felt full, the man’s hands large and possessive around him, and his own manhood slid against hard muscles, it all was too much. Legolas’ middle convulsed, his hands tightening around Aragorn’s neck, and he moaned out, finishing between the pair. “ _Ah, Aragorn_ ,” Legolas said, his voice breaking, and Aragorn pulled himself closer, carving deeper into this ethereal being that had given him everything. 

The spasm of muscles around Aragorn, the tight heat pulling him in deeper still, made strikes of pleasure line up his body. Aragorn’s thrusts stuttered, his sweat-slicked body bucking wildly to finish himself. It was so close, if he let go for a second, he could empty himself, but he wanted to look into blue eyes, wanted to _see_ the elf who held his heart so tightly. Legolas’ head rolled to the side, his golden hair fanned out behind him against the rock, golden braids looking thoroughly dishevelled from the force of Aragorn’s manhandling. Aragorn’s hands looked even dirtier against the rock, the filthy water dripping down, but Legolas’ hair looked at the most tousled, no sign of any dirt from the rock. Grabbing Legolas’ chin, Aragorn pulled his face closer, tanned fingers a stark contrast to flushed beautiful skin. Hot breaths pushed out over the elf’s face, and Aragorn’s demanding gaze blazed. 

“ _Mine_ ,” Aragorn promised heatedly in elvish, his hold tightening, and through the after haze, Legolas met him eagerly, blue eyes proving a love that ran so deep, so true, for so long, that Aragorn had never felt happier. His eyes fluttering, Aragorn thrusted one final time, his thighs shaking from the force. The pulses of his own manhood made Legolas moan out, and to finish so deep inside the prince, while looking so closely to his face, was transcendent. 

Moments passed, their heavy breaths joined by the trickle of water on the rocks the only sounds. Aragorn leaned his head against Legolas, and Legolas’ hold on Aragorn’s body did not lessen. The brief, never long enough, moments they had been gifted were fading, and the cold press of what Aragorn knew lay ahead of them threatened the peace. They had probably taken too long anyways, but Aragorn knew he could never have given such unparalleled joy up. 

Legolas was the first to move, his broken moan at sliding off Aragorn making Aragorn strain to remember that they could not continue. Swift hands tied the elf’s vest and garment, and Aragorn watched mournfully as the body he could spend an eternity worshipping and still feel as if it was not enough, was veiled once more. 

Aragorn slowly put himself away, large hands slowly pulling himself back into normalcy. Legolas smiled softly up at him, his kind eyes making Aragorn’s stomach clench. “If we are to die, I could not have ever imagined having been so lucky as to have had you in my last night. Wherever you lead, I will follow,” Legolas promised. 

Aragorn stepped forward, hand rough against the softness of Legolas’ cheek. Smiling, Aragorn kissed the elf briefly, trying to emphasize how truly enthralled he was to be able to touch the elf at all, how he was sure he could still be living through a dream to be able to love the elf so truly and have his love returned. 

Grabbing his undershirt, Aragorn finished dressing himself, and his hand hovered over the Evenstar. It shined so brightly even in the shadow, so pure and familiar. Aragorn placed it in his breast pocket. He had thought his heart taken before, but his increasingly pressing attachment to the elf proved unrivaled, his heart drawn to such depths he had never thought possible. Looking out towards the campsite, the night was still dark, the slightest tinge of dark blue disappearing into black. Mountains rose in the distance, and countless small fires below Dunharrow shone in the dark. And still, they were not enough. It was not to be all for naught, Aragorn knew he must not fail. Legolas laid a comforting hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, and Aragorn felt strength swell in his chest, felt pride and hope rekindle. _We cannot die._

Aragorn led Legolas out of the alcove, thankful that the soldiers did not seem able to see them still because of the mist. Striding towards the horses, Aragorn readied Brego and nodded to Legolas, who sought out his own horse. Aragorn sat tall on Brego, the thrum of what was to come singing in his blood. He was not without fear, or thoughts that they would fail, that Middle Earth may fall, that Arwen may die, that _Legolas_ may fall. But the steady beat of his heart that seemed renewed and expanded promised that he would try his hardest not to let such a fate follow, and that if there was any life left in him, he would see to it that his destiny fulfilled. 

The surprised neigh of Arod made Aragorn glance over. Gimli sat above Arod already, albeit haphazardly, looking decidedly cross. Legolas looked up, blue eyes wide, his outstretched hand falling awkwardly. 

“In the praise of the sense of elves, perhaps you have forgotten the senses of dwarves. Oh yes,” Gimli continued, his eyes narrowed. “One could only imagine the surprise I felt trying to find my companions in the camp, and being told you were last by the horses. Oh, I’d not any idea what lay ahead of me when I searched for you. You sure know what night to decide these things on, laddie, at the brink of certain death. I suppose _that_ concludes the senseless fight you were having,” Gimli grumbled, and Aragorn’s mouth fell. Legolas looked nervous, and the thought of losing Gimli like this was not something either companion could fathom. 

“I apologize for you having to see that, Master Dwarf. I...must say I do not know what to -” Legolas started with a flush in his cheeks, blonde hair shifting beautifully as he looked back at Aragorn for what to say. 

“I also...may have _heard_ certain words,” Gimli cleared his throat, suddenly looking nervous himself. Intricate braids of deep red looked almost black in the dark, and Aragon waited for the scorn of one of his closest friends to come. 

“Anyways, I suppose that it is not as rash as I had initially thought. I admit I do not understand everything, nor do I think I need to, but I can now see that it is true. Truer... truer even than loves before you in Rivendell,” Gimli said quietly, and he seemed to become less uncomfortable with the truth he felt in the words. 

“Master Dwarf, Gimli, my friend,” Aragorn started, his words tinged with deep gratitude. “Thank you. I would offer you anything that you feel you deserve to know, when such moments of peace come,” Aragorn said honestly. Legolas nodded, a smile that showed immense relief and appreciation for Gimli’s kindness. 

“To come, yes, after we go wherever you’re intending. Aye, and don’t think I’ll do what that pointy-eared elf had to do to get to go with you! I don’t know whether to be angrier at having had to find you like that or that you were planning on leaving me behind!” Gimli grunted, but Aragorn could tell he was barely holding back a laugh. Legolas grinned, and Aragorn laughed lightly. 

Aragorn nodded his head in thanks, and he held Gimli’s gaze warmly. _Thank you._ The dwarf nodded, feigning irritability, but Aragorn could tell that as his shock wore off, a hesitant happiness followed. How true, to let such small joy kindle in such times of darkness, Aragorn would never know how to deserve them. Legolas pulled himself up onto Arod gracefully, taking his place ahead of Gimli. Gimli’s short legs didn’t clear Arod’s body, and Aragorn was sure that he had found more trouble than it was worth to try actually riding Arod alone. Aragorn turned Brego, intent on heading towards the Path, when he heard Legolas’s quiet voice to Gimli. 

“Thank you, Master Dwarf. The hearts of some dwarves are truer than many elves merit them for,” Legolas said, placing a gentle hand on Gimli’s shoulder briefly. 

“Aye, aye, if this made you see it, then I suppose it is not as appalling. Still not what I would have liked to hear from the both of you. But if it makes you both happy, then I don’t see why you laddies can’t allow yourselves it. If we survive, that is, which does not look very promising,” Gimli mumbled, looking towards the foreboding split in the mountain Aragorn was heading towards. 

“There is no greater way to fall than besides those you love and your friends,” Legolas answered warmly. 

Gimli’s booming laugh sounded behind Aragorn, and he turned to look back at his companions. Gimli, whose stubborn loyalty and unwavering brotherhood made Aragorn feel determined to deserve such friendship. As Aragorn turned to look at Legolas, he felt his heartbeat quicken. It felt an eternity, watching Legolas smile happily at Gimli and slowly turn to meet Aragorn’s eyes. Grey eyes took in the beauty in front of his eyes, wanting to blaze each gentle slope and sharp feature into perfect memory. As he did, Aragorn noticed the barest white petal peeking out from his quiver. _My Alfirin._ Kind blue eyes softened when Aragorn’s wonderous gaze stilled over the kept gift. Legolas’ fervent eyes shined still under the dark, as if to say, _how else must I prove it to you?_ Blue eyes that Aragorn had once hoped to catch just to know if they wanted him, that held him and removed the mental barrier he had erected himself, opening the torrent of veiled love and want that laid in wait. Blue eyes that Aragorn had seen and known were of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever see even, now he knew even as a boy. Blue eyes that blazed to protect him, to follow him, to _die_ for him. Blue eyes that deferred to him so loyally, that hoped him only joy, even if be to another heart. Blue eyes that promised him a deeper love and loyalty than of this earth, for when Aragorn looked into them, he knew that this love was spread into his bones, had breathed life into his very blood, had made his love feel immortal at the very expense of the elf’s own mortality. 

Golden strands of hair seemed to glow still, the yellow sheen breathtaking against the darkness of the night. Sharp features that sloped perfectly, and an essence that exuded power and wisdom, and yet here he was, partaking in the fatal dance of love with Aragorn. Aragorn felt whole finally, here at the close, with his heart reinstated and Legolas’ promises wrapped around him, pressing against him and phasing into his very being. The urge to tell Legolas one more time was overwhelming - he knew that as soon as they passed through that mountain, there would be no time for longing looks or intimate words. They would go to war, every thought and action bent towards victory, and they could not afford to split their will. No, Aragorn wanted to be sure to promise Legolas his love as if it was the last time he was able to. Aragorn paused before the mountain pass, halting Brego and turning to look at Legolas. 

“ _I care not if my body falls in battle or breaks in old age, because my heart is bound to you eternally_ ,” Aragorn said quietly in elvish, and he didn’t even notice the way Gimli sighed in exasperation, for the happiness on Legolas’ face was heart stoppingly beautiful. 

“ _I had thought it a fool’s hope that you could ever be bound to I. But I had always known I was fated to be yours,”_ Legolas answered quietly, his eyes shining. 

Aragorn ducked his head with a grin, his heart fit to burst right out of his ribcage. He turned ahead to see the path in front of him before he lost his way, the image of Legolas’ loving face still in front of his eyes. The dark mist wrapped the companions in its sinister tendrils, the temperature dropping immediately, enough that Aragorn could see his breath ahead of him. _I was fated to be yours_ echoed in his head, the memory folding itself to be placed into his heart before he unwrapped it to feel the moment once again. 

The split in the mountain was unnatural, the cruel jagged lines premonition for the darkness that lie underneath the mountain. Still, Aragorn did not feel fear. To the Path of The Dead, Aragorn went, knowing the weight of Middle Earth rested on his shoulders, should he fulfill his destiny, cast off the ranger, and become king. It was heavy, in that crushing way on his shoulders.

And yet, knowing full well that he may die, Aragorn continued unwavering, his heart light. The love that he felt for Legolas was no longer a sufferance, but a gift from Valar, a dream to accept and to give. Even the weight of the Evenstar did nothing to deter him, for he knew such love was pure and beautiful, and with which he was able to recognize the overwhelming pull to Legolas that ran so much deeper without him knowing. Could it ever be wrong, to feel with such fervor and intensity, an infinite ocean of desire that was so pure and divine? Nay, such love was only given by the Valar. _‘Tis a gift._ Arwen’s love was deep and kind, had taught him love and beauty, and for that he held deep gratitude. The ease of that love was familiar and merciful. 

But it was not with this unforgiving love, this _true_ love, that had burrowed deep within his heart and refused leave. This torrent of every emotion he had, heightened tenfold, bracing his body to expunge its heart in offerance for the elf, every fiber in his being straining for his mind to accept his burning want. For this love was so true, that he knew in all of an eternity, he could not find the depths of how his heart ached for the prince. 

Aragorn would follow the path laid before him, heed what his forefathers fated him for, but they could not take his heart, nor lead it anywhere other than the elf prince at his back. 

And to that he held himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and with that, we are done! Damn, I really really loved writing this, it was so cathartic to put down into words. It was so dramatic but honestly I cannot see them not spilling their heart out so deeply like this. Writing romance in Tolkien language is unlike any other, I swear. I watch lotr every Christmas, and this time especially I just had so many thoughts that I needed to write down. I feel like I've sorta got a better feel for writing their characters, and I fully intend on doing more stories with them. I do want to do one post RoTK, which will be long I anticipate. but I also have fallen in love with the simplicity of them finding love on the journey together where we get to see them (the three hunters segment is one of my favorite parts in the whole trilogy). forever pining Legolas and aragorn going through a terrible cycle of shame and disbelief at having feelings for his closest companion is quite honestly my favorite trope for them. I really hope you enjoyed this story - it meant the absolute world to read your comments!! I hope the ending felt natural and satisfying because I definitely loved writing it, but of course, I'd love to hear what you thought :) 
> 
> until next time! I am so happy to have found the aralas fandom and cannot wait to stay in it. take care and thank you!! <3


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